“The same dull, depressing office, it hasn’t changed in seventeen years,” thought Greg Fowler as he entered the shabbily painted doorway. He hung his hat and coat on the stand, as usual; sat at the desk, as usual; and opened the ledger, as usual. The same routine every morning, he was sick of it; had been for years now.

Greg was a weak man. He knew his job here, and wondered what would become of him if he ever had to leave. Many hours of his “working” time were spent in day dreaming of faraway places, but he would never see these places on the salary old Mr. Beeching paid him. Lotteries and sweeps had been his hopeful investment up to now, but somehow luck had eluded him.

His thoughts were interrupted as Perkins, the new clerk hurried in. Throwing his coat on the stand he sat down at the other desk. He booted up his computer seconds before Beeching entered. After only three weeks Perkins knew Beeching’s movements better than Greg did.

“Morning” grunted the boss as he passed through to his own office, not waiting for a reply.

They settled into the morning’s routine, with Perkins working and Greg mumbling about him doing too much. Greg suspected that Perkins was paid more because he used a computer. Enough to make anyone hostile after seventeen years of loyal service.

Beeching left for the bank, as he did once a month, about eleven o’clock, and Greg put his pen aside. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a travel brochure, and began to read. Perkins looked at him and grinned.

“Going abroad this year, Greg?” he asked with a sneer.

Greg put his book away with disgust; he didn’t like Perkins. Someday, when his luck changed, he would sneer right back.

Too mean to have a security guard deliver it, Beeching carried the money himself in a brown paper bag. He came in and Greg fumbled for his pen, as usual. Beeching gave him a warning look.

Perkins rose from his seat and followed the boss across the room. As Beeching turned the handle of his office door Perkins grabbed the bag of money. He tried to wrench it from the withered hands, but Beeching hung on. Perkins was determined, and with a tearing sound pulled the precious bundle from the old man, who went sprawling into his own office. Perkins dashed from the room, grabbing his coat on the way. As he did so a roll of notes dropped from the torn bag; his running feet kicked it and it rolled across the office floor coming to rest under Greg’s desk.

All this time Greg had sat there stupefied. It was all over in an instant. Perkins had gone. Beeching stumbled to the ‘phone and called the police.

Later that afternoon Beeching went to the station with the police and Greg was left alone in the office. This was his chance; he went down on his hands and knees and pulled the roll of money from under his desk. He was afraid to count it, almost afraid to touch it, but he guessed it to be about €5,000. Looking left and right continually with frightened eyes he made a small package of it and addressed it to a Mr Kemp at his lodging house. Quickly, he slipped out to the post office and posted it.

He felt relieved as he sat down at his desk again, nobody had noticed him, he was sure of that, and nobody knew about the roll of money. Even Perkins had not seen it. Greg knew that his luck had changed. He had taken his cut of the “Perkins job”. He felt smug and worldly.

Within two days Perkins was arrested, and most of the money recovered. Greg would have to wait a while before he could do anything, then he would go on that long dreamed of trip. The money would give him confidence, he could do things he had always wanted to do, have a holiday first, then start a new life. Yes, all he needed was a little help to get started, and this was it, after all, seventeen years with Beeching, working for a mere pittance, he deserved it.

Greg did less work in the next few days, he had big decisions to make. Now that he had the money it wasn’t so easy to make up his mind. A holiday was easy enough, but what about work. He was almost set on going to New York, but he would have to wait a few more weeks to let the heat die down.

As the days went by Greg began to feel anxious about his parcel. He began to wait for the postman before leaving for work.

“Can’t be much longer” he thought nervously, “better not make enquiries, only draw attention to myself”.

The postman passed again, no parcel. Greg just had to ask.

“Anything for us?”

“No, Greg” was the reply, “Not since that package the other day”.

“Package?” croaked Greg.

“Yes, for someone called Kemp. Your landlady said nobody of that name ever lived here, so it went back to the GPO. Probably be opened to see who sent it”

Eight years later Greg was presented with a cheap watch for twenty five years service with Beeching.